


The Cycle of Revenge

by tyranusfan



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:55:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27719186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tyranusfan/pseuds/tyranusfan
Summary: Revenge was as much a part of the Winchester Family Business as saving people, but eventually the cycle has to end.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 17





	The Cycle of Revenge

_I saw many comments online about how Sam's old man makeup looked bad, or cheap, and one person said it looked unnatural. Added to that the relative youth of his son (the actor is 26), and that got me thinking: what if Sam's death **wasn't** natural?_

****

SPN SPN SPN

“You killed my father.” Dean said, levelling the sawed-off shotgun at the smaller figure across the table.

He’d been hunting the monster that killed his father for weeks, finally finding his way to a small house outside of town. Except that it didn’t seem to be a monster at all, it was a man. Short, white beard, haggard features surrounding beady eyes, not threatening in any way.

_The ones that appear harmless are usually the most dangerous._ Dean could hear his father’s words in his head as clearly as the day they were spoken. He kept the gun leveled on the other man. 

His target kept his hands raised, but his voice was mocking. “Who me? How could I have done that?”

“I found the hex bag,” Dean growled.

The man laughed. “If there was a hex bag involved—and I’m not saying there was—then _whoever_ planted it there would have been smart enough to put a spell on it so no one would ever find it.”

Dean tossed the cursed object on the table between them. The man frowned, glancing from it to Dean and back. “Rowena helped me find it.”

That seemed to surprise the man. “ _You_ summoned the Queen of Hell? Wow! That takes balls!”

“She had a soft spot for my dad,” Dean sneered.

“Hmm,” the man wrinkled his nose. “She always did have bad taste.”

Dean’s finger tightened on the trigger, his hand shaking. “Tell me why.”

“Why? Why what?”

“Don’t play stupid!” Dean shouted. “Tell me why you killed my dad!”

The wizened man hummed thoughtfully. “I tell you what: I’ll answer your question, if you answer one of mine, first. Deal?”

Dean hesitated. He didn’t have to think hard to recall his father’s warnings about deals. He was sorely tempted to pull the trigger and end it right then.

“ _Deal?_ ”

“What’s your question?” Dean asked, gritting his teeth.

The smaller man smirked. “Did he suffer?”

The rage that had been building inside ever since he’d discovered the source of his father’s illness threatened to boil over. Dean gripped the shotgun tighter and took a menacing step forward, forcing the smaller man to step back, hands still raised in submission.

“Don’t go all emo on me, kid. Just use that big brain of yours, control your impulses, and answer my question. _Did he suffer?_ ”

“Yes!” Dean spat, furious. “For seven months!”

It had started slowly. Dad had started complaining of old injuries aching more than usual—which was in itself alarming, since his father rarely complained about pain at all, it was always like he was used to it. He’d ignored Dean’s urgings to go to a doctor for weeks, until finally conceding, but the tests showed nothing. 

As the weeks went on, his dad’s hair had started to gray, and he began to have trouble moving around. But more tests and specialists still found nothing. The final few months had been horrible. His father couldn’t get out of bed, the pain was so intense he could barely speak, and his features started to advance in years much faster than was normal, or medically explainable. 

Dean had searched every page of lore in his father’s library, and called every hunter in his little black book that was still alive, but no one had any answers. He’d finally had to call in Hospice, and after that his dad had deteriorated fast.

“Right...” The other man’s voice cut into Dean’s racing thoughts. “Yeah, that was the dragon’s teeth. Hard to come by, lemme tell you, but it was the only ingredient that was powerful enough to hurt someone like your dad. You know, a thousand years with Lucifer down in the Cage? Makes you _really_ resistant to pain.”

“You happy, now?” Dean snarled. His grip on the shotgun was white-knuckled. He’d always thought the phrase “seeing red” was just a metaphor….

The white-haired man’s tone grew mocking again. “Ecstatic. You know, premature aging spells are hit or miss. I wasn’t even sure it was going to work.”

Dean took another step forward, forcing the man away from the table and into an open area of the room. “ _Answer my question_. Why?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” When Dean didn’t reply, he sighed. “All right. I guess thick-headedness runs in the family. Um. Revenge. Payback is a bitch, as the poet says.”

“Payback for _what_?”

The man motioned to himself. “For this! _He_ did this to me! Left me to _rot_! Your dad had it coming.”

Dean was so tempted to pull the trigger. It was getting harder and harder not to, but as difficult as it was, he needed to hear the reason for all of it. He’d come too far not to know the truth. Fortunately, the man was on a roll now, explaining everything. 

“He was hard to get at, too. Paranoid, man! That house is a _fortress_. Wards, traps, freakin’ security cameras! It took me years just to find out where he lived. My gosh, it was like he was in witness protection or something.”

“Are you a witch?”

“Do you see any rabbits around here?” The man asked, condescendingly. “No, I’m not a witch, dumbass. I guess you inherited your uncle’s slow-wittedness.”

Dean fumed, but said nothing. 

“Okay,” the man sighed again, seeming disappointed. “I can see you’re not interested in the witty repartee. Fine. So, do it.” 

Dean just frowned. 

“Oh, come on! Do it! Blow my head off! That’s what you came here to do!”

“I’m tempted,” Dean seethed. “You have no idea.”

“Then what are you waiting for?”

“My father raised me better than that…” Dean half-whispered. “I’m not going to kill you. I won’t sink to your level.”

The other man seemed frustrated, and erupted in rage. “Oh spare me the holier-than-thou stuff, kid. I’ve heard it all, and from bigger self-righteous pricks than you!”

Dean finally got control of his rage, and took a deep breath. The end of the shotgun dipped slightly, which only made the other man angrier. 

“Don’t wimp out! Do it! Take me out! Prove yourself to your _old man_ , like you should have before I _murdered_ him—!” 

There was no warning. His anger flared again, and Dean pulled the trigger. The blast flipped the old man onto his back, skidding him across the stone floor. Dean moved in, keeping the weapon trained on him the way he was taught. 

The old man was wheezing, trying to catch his breath, staring down at his shredded shirt in confusion. Dean reveled in the chance to explain something to him for a change. 

“Rock salt, asshole.”

Somewhat surprisingly, the old man smiled up at him. “You’re not done. I can see it in your eyes.”

Dean couldn’t deny that. He wanted nothing more than to fire again, and blow the arrogant expression off the old geezer’s face. But he held his temper, this time. Narrowing his eyes, he stared at the downed man for a moment. “You _want_ me to kill you.”

Still coughing, the man rolled his eyes. “Duh.”

“Why?”

“ _Why_?” the man mocked. “Because that’s what you Winchesters live for. _Revenge_. The ‘family business’ you’re so detestably proud of. You kill me…you start off on a spiral of blood and pain that’ll consume you just like it consumed everyone else in your bloodline.”

“You wouldn’t be around to see it,” Dean rumbled. 

“I don’t have to be. Go ahead, do it. I get the last laugh. I _win_!”

Dean nodded slowly. It made sense. The other man’s logic seemed sound. “I’ve got a better idea.”

He stepped away, keeping the gun half-raised in case the man made a move, but used his free hand to pull a marker from his jacket and draw the sigil atop the table. The lights dimmed briefly, and there was a change in the air, followed by the smell of smoke and the soft crackle of fire. Dean turned to face the pale redhead in her long red dress. 

“Rowena?” the man on the floor breathed. Dean heard the note of fear in his voice. He wasn’t smiling now.

Dean stepped over again, staring down at him. “I know who you are. I know the things you’ve done. But, I won’t play your games. All I had to do was _find_ you.”

He stepped aside as Rowena stepped forward, smiling maternally at him. She reached out and touched her ice cold hand to Dean’s cheek. “You’re a bonnie lad. You’ve done well.”

He apprehensively met her gaze. “Did you…were you able to—?”

She smiled, in a way that sent a shiver down Dean’s spine. “As per our agreement, I did take a peek—not a safe spell to cast, I assure you. Risking angels’ wrath, and all—but it was worth it, for this prize.” Her gaze fell on the fallen man, who tied to squirm away, but two smoky black demons blocked his escape.

Rowena leaned in to whisper in Dean’s ear. “Your father is happy. Joyous in ways that this world never let him be…and he loves you _very_ much.” 

Dean’s breath hitched, his vision blurring. Rowena smiled compassionately as she pulled away, before leveling a stern look at him.

“Now, it’s time for you to go home. You want no part of this.”

Dean nodded, casting a last, grim look at the bastard who killed his father, before turning on his heel and walking away. Behind him, he heard Rowena _tsk_. 

“Oh…Chuck. How the almighty have fallen.”

**END**


End file.
